Night Has Chosen Thee
by Orlissa92
Summary: We all know how Zoey was Marked. But what about her gang? Series of one shots.
1. Aphrodite

**Disclaimer: **Sadly, I still don't own anything. P.C. and Kristin Cast do.  
**A/N: **First one shot in the series about how each member of Zoey's gang got Marked. There gonna be seven of them, in alphabetical order (Aphrodite, Damien, Erik, Erin, Jack, Shaunee, Stevie Rae). Most likely I won't write about Stark for only one reason: I know nothing about his background (but this can change after I read Tempted, so there might be a Stark one shot later). Don't hate me. Genre and rating will change with each story.  
About Aphrodite's pre-Marked name: my roomie, who is actually called Judith, is a big fan of Aphrodite, and asked me to name our Vision Girl after her   
**Genre: **Angst/General**  
Rating: **K+**  
Word count: **2604**  
Dedicated **to the sweetest of all roomies, Judith (IceGirl), for her support and friendship, for the funny moments, when we talk about HoN like she was Aphrodite and I was Zoey, and for always bugging me to translate it to her 

**One: Aphrodite**

Spring came late this year to Oklahoma. Though it was already well into the spring break, the weather was still cool, almost chilly, and it rained without a decent break for days.

The weather mirrored well the mood of the young girl, who was sitting on the windowsill in one of the old-time oil mansions. Her shoulder-length blond hair neatly combed, her expensive-looking clothes perfectly unwrinkled, icy-blue eyes wandering out the window, not even sensing the room around her.

She should have been downstairs right now, ready to go out with her parents to another speech or charity banquet or grand opening or whatever.

You have to do a lot of shit if your father is the mayor of your hometown, and the election is coming up.

It was all about the election, anyway, and she knew it. Last year, when she was Freshman in High School her parents weren't even bothering to bring her home for the spring break. But now only appearances mattered: keep up with the illusion of the perfect, happy family, whose members love each other dearly, with a handsome, confident and totally trustworthy father, a mannequin-like mother, who looked like she'd just stepped out from a TV advertisement and a trouble- and zit- free teenage daughter with great grades and attitude beyond reproach. A perfect family, in who the people would trust.

What a lie.

But this was the way things were since she was little. She was taught that money and power were the only things that mattered, and to get these things you have to be beautiful, confident and sly, and you have to lie, and some cases you have to pretend to be someone else.

And as she has already experienced, this someone else sometimes grows upon you.

'Judith, we've got to go. Your father is going to be late.' Called a cold, almost emotionless voice behind her back, and she could also see the reflection of her mother's face on the ran-stained glass. She was a real ice queen; the kind of woman who you think beautiful, but only until you got to know her – then the picture shatters.

The girl stood up slowly, smoothing her clothes. Her mother nodded in approval; she liked the view. Her daughter is – well, not perfect, but good enough to be seen by the reporters as Mayor LaFont's famous "precious little girl". The media will love her, she smiles to herself.

The girl didn't say a word, just walked silently to her desk, grabbing a coat and her purse, and was already out the door, slipping beside her mother. She didn't have a mood for a small talk. She just wanted to get out of there.

***

In front of the City Hall, well, it's an another story. This is the time of pretending; smiling and waving. And she plays her part well. She always has.

She stood beside her mother, under the edge of the roof which protected her from the rain, watching her father reciting a speech he didn't write. But he spoke with such an intense passion, that the people at his feet believed all the lies. That's the way politics work.

In spite of the shitty weather more than a thousand people gathered to the square; they watched her father with awe; they were only a step from worshipping him.

The girl's stomach clenched.

If they've only known the real mayor…

Her gaze wandered over the mob, but she only saw umbrellas and cheap raincoats. Faceless people. The electors.

She'd been always told that she's better than them, and by now, she believed in it. And to tell the truth, she did feel like she was better than them. Her parents may haven't been the best persons in the world, but she wasn't either. She was just like them.

So she straightened her spine and turned her chin to the grayish sky.

Cameras flashed.

She looked over the crowd again, this time lingering on them longer, but she saw nothing more than the first time.

Then was when she first saw Him.

He stood at the end of the square, tall and confident, and so strange, that the girl wondered, how the people didn't gawk at Him, or better, ran away from Him, screaming. But no. It was like they didn't even see Him. It was like He was only visible to her.

And it scared the girl.

Because she knew very well who – or more like what – He was. The sapphire blue tattoos on his face could've been clearly seen even from such a distance.

He was a vampyre.

She has already met a few vampyres. Two summers ago they opened one of their creepy schools in the city, and for it they needed her father's permission, so for two weeks or so vampyres were coming and going in their house - they didn't even bother to go to her father's office. She remembered their beauty, their confidence, and how scared she was when she first saw them.

Her father has never liked vampyres; she thought he was even afraid of them, but at least surely jealous. But he knew that the vamps had money, and her father loved money. So after a few short consultations he gave the permission for the school. And anyway, no-one wanted to piss off the vampyres.

But this vamp was different that the ones from two years ago. She couldn't grip the difference, but she could feel that there was something about Him. It sent shivers down her spine.

Then He looked up and met her curious gaze.

She could see His irises like He was standing in front of her. They were like a bottomless ocean in storm. Cold silver.

She gasped.

'Judith, what are you doing?' her mother spoke to her, her tone scolding. The girl shook her head, signaling that nothing's wrong, thought she knew that her mother didn't ask this.

Then she coughed. It was just a soft cough, but it bothered her.

Because she finally understood what she was seeing. Because she could see the light interest in His eyes. Because she could feel the next, more powerful cough coming up. Because the hairs stood up on her neck.

He was a Tracker and he's come for her.

To tell the truth, the recognition didn't even freak her out. All she could think of was 'not now. Not in front of everyone. Not in front of my parents'.

Just like He could read her mind, He nodded, then in blink of the eye, He disappeared.

The girl knew He wasn't gone for ever, but how could He? She knew so much about vampyres that once the Change is started – and she was sure, it has in her case -, there was no turning back.

So she stood confident till the end of her father's speech, despite her coughing fits, what were getting stronger.

Because she could feel that this was the last event she is present for a while.

And deep inside she was glad about it.

***

By the time her father finished his speech, about an hour later, she was coughing almost constantly. Until they got into the BMW her mother was patting her back, and even caressed her hair and face a few times. In one word, she acted like a perfect mother – after all, people were watching. But when they were settled in the leather seats she dropped her façade.

'Don't tell me you're getting sick right now. We're to go to the church tomorrow.' She said with thick annoyance.

'Don't tell me we're going to a stupid People of Faith mass?' The girl managed to say between two coughs.

'Don't you dare to speak to me with that tone, young lady! And of course we're going. The People of Faith have a great influence on people, and…' With that she went on a tirade how important is the religion and such. The girl didn't even pay attention to her. She'd heard all too many times already. Her father didn't say a word. Not about her mother's preach, not about his speech, not even about his daughter's condition. But she was used to it as well.

When they pulled up to the driveway ten minutes later it was still raining heavily. And through the thick curtain of raindrops she could see Him again. He was standing the other side of the road, just watching, waiting. Like he was saying: I'm not in hurry. Take your time.

When they finally reached the house, she scattered up to her room, without saying something.

In her beautifully decorated room, which was furnished the best and the most expensive furniture, her own little world, she finally let herself relax.

She sat on the silk comforter which covered her bed, and thought about what was happening to her.

She was turning into a vampyre, that was sure. She was going to leave her parents, drop out of the prep school she was attending. This, in itself, wasn't a bad thing. And she was going to say goodbye to her horde of "friends" (not that she actually had real friends. She didn't need them. The only thing they could do was break your heart), her position in the cheerleaders and the school council, the boys she'd been flirting with – in short, her popularity and power. Well, this wasn1t that good.

But she could start a new, independent life, and she could achieve this all again. It was just matter of time, considering that she had everything to get them.

But, sitting there in her room, totally alone, without anyone watching, she shed one solitary tear for her lost life. And she swore that this was the last.

With that she stood up and headed to her bathroom for a hot, long, relaxing bath.

***

It was already well into the evening and it was getting dark outside. The rain has finally stopped, but there was no wind to blow the clouds away.

The girl was lying on her stomach on her bed, clad in a bathrobe, an open magazine in front of her. But she wasn't really reading. She didn't even see what was on the pages as she flipped through them; it was just something to keep her hands busy.

She was waiting.

Waiting for the doorbell to rang, for the shattering of the breaking window, for a shriek from her mother, from a yell from her father. For anything that signaled that the Tracker got bored by waiting, and finally came for her.

But nothing happened so far.

It was started to make her anxious.

Was she just imagining the Tracker?

Then she coughed again, and she knew she wasn't.

There was a soft knock on the door, and before she could have answered, their housekeeper poked her head into the room.

'Miss, dinner is ready. Your parents are waiting for you.' Her tone was cold, almost rude. With that, she left. The girl had never really liked her, but she could point out why. Maybe it was because she'd never pretended to like her and her parents; she did her job, because she needed the money, but she rarely had a nice word to them. Secretly, Judith adored her for it.

She stood reluctantly, slipped into her slippers, and spine straightened, she left the room gracefully. Let's her parents don't see what was going inside her.

***­­

The dinner went smoothly, as always. Well, if you can call "smooth" when a family sits around a table, eating and don't saying anything to each other, just formalities.

She had enough of it.

'So… what about the election?' She tried to start a small talk; she knew the best way to do it was ask her father about politics.

He didn't answer instantly; he chewed for a good minute, looking like he was considering his answer.

'We're good.' He said finally. In reality, she wasn't a man of words. At least not in front of his family. He could only rant well when he was furious. 'There's no doubt that this period is mine as well.' With that he continued eating. Her mother didn't even say a word. The girl looked down to her plate, and coughed again.

Then it happened.

'What are thinking you're doing?' The words sounded like the housekeeper was getting nearer, but she couldn't hear the other person's footsteps. So it was Him. 'I didn't give you a permission to go!' They reached the dining room.

Her parents gasped.

The Tracker looked nonchalant – or more like, there was no emotion on his face. The housekeeper, on the other hand, looked like she could blast in any moment. She was only a step from start beating the chest of the vampyre.

'What the hell it means?' Her father stood up. He suddenly found his voice, showing that he was angry. Finally some emotion.

The housekeeper stopped trying to get the Tracker out of the room.

'Excuse me, Mr., I couldn't do anything. The… the _Sir _just walked in the front door, without ringing the bell, or anything. I tried to stop him, but-' Her father cut in.

'I command you, Mister, to leave my house until I don't call the police.' He talked to him like he was the vampyre, and their "visitor" the human. The Tracker didn't even flinch. 'If you want to discuss anything, I suggest you to ask an appointment from my secretary…'

This was the point when she the girl couldn't stand any longer aside.

'Father, leave him alone.' She said, standing up. 'He's come for me.'

Everybody in the room, except the Tracker looked at her with wide eyes. The housekeeper let out a high pitched and ran out of the room. No-one said anything for a long moment.

'No.' That was all what her mother said, breaking the silence. 'I won't let it happen. I won't… such a shame in our family…'

The laughed a cold, sarcastic laugh, which turned into a cough.

'Like you could control it.'

'We can, there must be a way…' her father lost all of confidence in such a crisis, and looked like a little boy. 'I can't happen. Not right now. Not before…'

The girl's heart clenched. All he could think about was the election. It was so usual of him, but it still hurt.

'Believe me, there isn't.' The girl said in a cold, determined tone. 'There isn't, is there?' She turned to the Tracker. He nodded solemnly. 'See? There isn't anything to do.'

'But… but…' Her mother babbled.

'There are no buts, Mother. Some things just have to happen.' With that, she turned away from her parents. She didn't even realize that these were the last words she told them before getting Marked. Like she would have cared. She turned to Tracker again. 'Do it. Do it now. Let's get over it.'

In somewhere, deep inside her soul, she was eager to get out of the old oil mansion, out of her parents' claws. Eager to start a new life. Would it be different than the one she has lived until now? Would she be different?

She wasn't sure.

The Tracker nodded grimly, the started to recite the ancient words:

_Judith La Font! Night has chosen thee; thy death will be thy birth. Night calls to thee; hearken to her sweet voice! Your destiny awaits you at the House of Night!_

House of Night… how promising…

This was the last thing, alongside with her mother's scream to go through her mind before she passed out.

**A/N** To be continued…  
The next one: Damien

About Fallen Priestess: I'm in the process of planning the plot of the continuation, which I plan to be a multi-chapter story under a different title. I plan to upload the first chapter on Samhain night – it gives me enough time to finish the plot and hopefully a few chapters, and it's enough to you guys to go nuts :P

Back to this story: I plan to dedicate each one shot to someone, but I don't know yet who they'll be :D

Now, if you liked this story, would you be so kind to push that green button below?


	2. Damien

**Disclaimer: **Sadly, I still don't own anything. P.C. and Kristin Cast do.  
**A/N**: Here you are, the next one  But I have bad news guys… most likely, I won't be able to post the next one shot and the continuation of Fallen Priestess in time. I have already started to write them, but I am really busy these days. I'm going for my driver's license, which means that I have extra classes three evenings a week, plus I'll have seven(!) tests next week, in four days (English, Chemistry, Physics, Music, Geometry, Math and possibly History), not to mention the competition for which I have to read a really long book…

But the good news are that after next week I'll have a week's worth break, in which I plan to write a lot 

**Genre**: angst/family/hurt/comfort

**Rating**: T

**Word count: **3361

**Dedicated** to my two almost roomies, Vivi and Mesy. To Vivi, because she was the one who infected me with the Rubik's cube-fever, and to Mesy for her unconditional love for any gay character (I swear, she actually cried when she thought that Lafayette died in True Blood )

**Two: Damien**

'How was school?'  
'It was okay.'

'Did you have a test today?'  
'Yes.'

'Did you study for it?'

'Of course.'

'Good.' His mother said, not even looking up from her precious pan. She wasn't this emotionless, anyway. Or at least she didn't use to be. She was only like this since he admitted to his parents that he was gay.

Well, admitting maybe not the right word. Long story short: he had come to his senses, planned a date with a boy, but right before he would have gone out, he confessed it to his parents, at dinner.

His father freaked _out_. At first, he just questioned him, smiling wryly if he was kidding, then when he got the truth, in rage he broke a vase, proclaimed that he has a month worth detention – like he could solve this with detention -, and then went to his precious church to pray – not for his son, but help him solve this problem. Yeah, his big, priest dad. Ha! He had always been little more than a selfish man and a coward. Hiding behind his wretched faith.

His mother just started crying. So he felt like he was excused, and went up to his room. He couldn't even go out on his date, or cancel it – since he had no cell phone back at that time. But this issue had been taken care of ever since. But nonetheless, he haven't heard about that boy ever since.

It was so his luck – or rather, the lack of it.

He only had the courage to go down next morning. And from that point his parents acted this way: his father tried to engage him with manly things, though he would talk himself out of them, and his mother spoke to him less, just the about the essentials, just like she didn't know what to do with a gay son. Oh, and yes: they didn't say a word about him being gay. Just like that little fact didn't exist, just like he wasn't caught with a guy. Goodness, his mother even tried to set up a date with the daughter of some of her friends for him!

Not that he had dated ever since. Not even with another guy. His parents seemed pissed enough.

And he started to have enough of it.

'I'll be up in my room.' He said, not waiting for an answer. He knew it wouldn't come.

Up the stairs, the second door to the right – that was his little realm, his cozy little room, his bubble of calmness. It was small, but it was his.

Simple white walls, only one, west-facing window – it had a good view to the setting sun. It was jam packed with a bed, a nightstand, two full bookcases, a wardrobe, and a desk with sheets, school papers, drawings and textbooks scattered all over it. Well he was kind, a good student, and overly a nice guy – a little untidiness could be forgiven, couldn't it?

He put down his book bag to his chair, and started to pack it out – the work first, having fun later. With the excuse of studying he might as well be able to avoid his mother until dinner.

He sat down and opened his history book – and coughed.

He put down his book, annoyed. Right then, he really wasn't in the mood to studying. And he had already known this lesson, anyway.

He picked up a Rubik's cube from the far corner of his desk, and started turning it.

_ Great_, he thought, while playing with the cube. Now he was getting ill – which could mean that he will has to miss a few days from school and stay home. At least in school he didn't have to be together with his 'in-denial' parents. It was a good change, though at school he was usually bullied, called names and picked on, it was still better than being at home.

When he put out the first color he coughed again. So he decided to have a nice mug of hot tea, hoping that it would help. He put down the toy and walked downstairs to the kitchen. His mother was still there, stirring something in a big pan. She had always liked cooking – it was a part of the "being a perfect priest wife" act she has been putting on for as long as he could remember -, but since she found about his only son being homosexual she cooked even more – just to keep herself busy. She would make a dinner for the three of them that would be enough for an entire class at Damien's school. She would try new recipes, some of them would turn out great, and some of them wouldn't. At all. But he would still eat it, with a smile on his face. Despite his mother's behavior, he was still desperate to keep some of their bond.

He walked silently into the room, to the cabinet to grab a mug and a box of tea filters. His mother only looked up when the door of the cabinet closed with a soft thud.

'What are you doing?'

'I'm making a little tea, 'cause my throat is a little sore. Would you like some too?' He tried to talk with her, holding up his favorite mug, with the teddy bears on it.

His mother put down her wooden spoon, and stepped up to him, putting a hand on his forehead.

'You have no fever.' She said with a small smile, sounding relieved. There were still moments when she could forget all this my-son-likes-guys issue. 'That's good. It's might be just some slight cold.' She turned to the cabinets, putting out a water pot. 'You just sit down. I'll do it.'

Damien did what he was told and sat down beside the old, circular oak table that dominated their kitchen, and watch his mother work.

He'd always liked to do this. When he was little, he'd occasionally go down to the kitchen and watch his mother prepare dinner. Sometimes, she'd even ask him to help her: cut the vegetables, stir the soup. Sometimes, he'd cut his fingers, and the soup would leak out. Back in those times, his mother laughed, said that he'd be the next Jamie Oliver, and kissed his temple.

But ever since his coming out of the closet, she hadn't asked him to help.

They haven't even really interacted ever since, like they didn't have a topic.

But with sudden flick of courage, he decided to change this.

'Mom, can I help somehow?' He asked cautiously. She looked at him with wide, surprised eyes, like she didn't expect it. Like she'd forgotten that her son was with her.

'Yeah, sure.' She said softly, absentmindedly. 'Would you please stir the sauce?' Then she went back to preparing to tea.

Damien stepped to the stove and sniffed the air before looking into the pan – onion, oregano and tomato…

'Are you making spaghetti Bolognese?' He asked with a big smile on his face – it was his favorite.

'Yeah, of course' she said, without looking up from her work. 'I know how you like it. And I haven't made it for ages.'

Damien felt like he was soaring – his soul was filled with hope. He could feel that there was still a slight chance of them – or at least his mother – accepting him.

'I'll make the pasta!' He offered eagerly, and not even waiting for an answer he pulled out another casserole and a package of pasta. His mother just shook her head, smiling.

'You know, I kind of miss those old times.' She said quietly.

'You too? Then I'm not alone. It's good to hear.' He said, also smiling. After that, they fell into an easy chatter, while preparing dinner… Just like in those old times.

And meantime, he has almost forgot his coughing.

***

It was almost eight o'clock by the time his father arrived home – but it was usual. He was priest in a nearby church, therefore he was a rather busy man, but he used to find the way to go home early to spend time with his family. But it has changed ever since that day; ever since then he had always found some excuse to stay in God's house. By now, the eight o'clock seemed rather soon, considering, that there were times when he just called home to tell his wife that he wouldn't come home for dinner. They even could go to bed, don't even wait for him; he has a ton of paperwork.

But Damien saw right through it: he couldn't bear to be together a sinned son.

He briefly greeted his wife, giving her a peck on the cheek – there was audience, even it was only their son, so more physical interaction was inappropriate. For Damien, he only grunted an 'Evening, Son.'

'Evening, Father. Welcome home.' He looked down to the table, where he was sitting. When the food was done, he stayed in the kitchen, and continued his conversation with his mother. But their easy chatter died down as soon as the man, who Damien used to be so proud to call his father back in time, walked in the door.

'What's for dinner?' He asked, with faked enthusiasm.

'Spaghetti Bolognese, I hope it's okay for you.' His mother replied with a smile, and way too much perkiness, which didn't suite her at all.

_Oh, yeah_, Damien thought. _We're back to pretending_.

'That's great, Darling.' He replied with faked interest. 'Son, help your mother, and put up the table.' He said to Damien, without even looking at him. He never looked into his eyes anymore.

'Right away, Father.' He said, also avoiding his father's gaze, stepping to the cabinets.

That's going to be a hell of dinner, he thought bitterly.

***­­

They prayed first, thanking God the food – that was something Damien could never understand. Somehow, God was too distant for him to believe. And anyway, what kind of god was him, if he despised everybody, who was different from the crowd? What kind of God is the one, who wants every man of his to be the same? In Damien's eyes it was like he was taking their selves from them.

But his father insisted it, so he did it. He didn't need any other confrontation.

Then they eat, he in silence, his mother chatting about harmless little gossips, his father listening wisely, only rarely saying anything, when his mother went too far. He coughed for a few times, but his father didn't even pay attention. And even if he did, he would have just told him to pray for health. He didn't believe in modern medicine.

When they finished the dessert, he asked Damien about school. He replied vaguely, saying that his grades are still good. He asked this every night – in fact, it was the only thing he kept asking him.

And Damien answered him every night the same. And he never failed to notice the little surprise in his father's eyes. It told him that his father thought so little of "his kind", that it was unusual for him that his son was still a good student.

When they collected the dishes after dinner his father went to his study – to pray, surely -, and Damien remained in the kitchen, helping his mother.

He was a good son, even if they didn't want to admit it.

He was just about to go upstairs to his room to finish his History homework, after every dish was washed, dried, and put in place, when his mother called after him.

'Honey, would you take out the trash?'

If he had known what was waiting for him outside, he wouldn't have said yes.

The sky was already ink black outside – they were early in spring, and it still got dark pretty soon, but the soft breeze was soothing, but not cool enough to make someone cold. Their container was placed by the northern wall of their house, by a flower bed. Even in the darkness, he couldn't miss it.

It was a silent night, even for the calm suburb of Dallas, but still, his instincts was telling him, that something was wrong. Or it was because of the silence?

Then as he rounded the corner, he saw him or at least his distinct contour in the darkness. And his eyes, his eerie, sleet-silver eyes, which were glowing like a cat's eyes.

Damien was so surprised – scared? – by his sudden appearance, that he dropped the bag of thrash from his hand.

'Excuse me, mister' he said carefully. 'You have scared me. Can I help you? Are you lost?'

It was so typical of him – the man could have been a burglar, or the reincarnation of Jack the Ripper – okay, he had a little bit too creative imagination, but he could have been a murderer – and he just started chatting with him, like he was just an old acquaintance of his.

The man didn't answer just stepped into the soft light of the lamppost.

Damien gasped.

He could see so much before that the stranger was tall and skinny, but now he could see him in detail. He wasn't that that sick, I-don't-eat-anything skinny, but the kind of with sleek muscles. He had insignificant, dirty blond hair, pulled back in a ponytail, white skin, long nose, and strong jaw line, oh, and of course – vampyre tattoos all over his face.

Damien wanted to say something – that he wouldn't disturb the vampyre, hat he would just go back to the house, or beg him not to harm, not to rip out his throat, but his words lost somewhere.

So he just stood there, gawking at the vampyre, doing nothing.

He could swear he was the corner of vampyre's mouth twitch upward, then he held up his hand, and suddenly Damien knew what would come next.

And it scared him endless.

He didn't want it to happen.

But he could nothing against it.

_Damien Maslim! Night has chosen thee; thy death will be thy birth. Night calls to thee; hearken to her sweet voice! Your destiny awaits you at the House of Night!_

Before he could stop himself, he let out a scream, then everything went black.

***­­

The first thing his mind registered was the warm, uneven, slightly damp ground under his back. The second was his mother's soft, worried voice.

'Damien, are you here? Is everything alright?' As her footsteps were coming closer, Damien struggled himself up, glancing up the woman, standing by the corner of the house.

'Everything is okay mom, at least I guess…' he said, his voice sounding hoarse. But as he lifted up his head to meet the woman's gaze, she screamed, her hands flew to clap her mouth.

'What…?' He started, but he silenced by his mother pointing her finger at his forehead, sobbing loudly.

Oh, yes. So it's really happened, he thought.

He looked around him; the Tracker was long gone.

Composing himself, he tried to soothe the frantic woman.

'Mom, it's me. You needn't be scared…' He even surprised himself how calm he sounded.

'Evan! Evan, come here now, please, Darling!' His mother shouted through her tears to her husband.

And Damien's father came, oddly remembering him a panting dog who got a glimpse of a rattlesnake. He stopped abruptly at the corner, taking a step back in surprise and – fear?

'Oh, my Lord…' He whispered and crossed himself.

'Dad, I…' Damien started, but he couldn't finish it; he couldn't find words to describe it. Were there even words to express what he was feeling? He doubted.

But in one thing, he was sure: this picture would haunt hi forever: his mother bending in waist, crying, unable to look at him, her very own flesh and bone; his father, otherwise, looking at him with wide eyes, his mouth moving without sound, reciting away too many times repeated prayer.

By the time he finished his prayer he was able to compose himself enough to step to his wife, and hug her shoulders, trying to unsuccessfully calm her. She looked to his face, shaking her head in sadness, like she was saying that it couldn't have happened. Not to her only son.

'Boy, go to your room, and pack everything you'll need. We're leaving in an hour.' He said coldly, not even looking at Damien.

'Yes, father.' He said, not even startled by the lack of comforting, lack of emotion. Ha was used to it by then. He got up from the ground, and walked past his parents without a word. If they didn't feel the need of talking, then so did he. If they wanted to act like this, then he would go along. Just to make things easy; not just for him, but for all three of them.

He walked upstairs in silence, feeling, more like than hearing his parents well behind him. He packed quickly, not really too much things: just a few clothes, just as much as was necessary, his favorite bedclothes, the books he liked the most, and the ones he didn't have the chance to read yet; he stole a quick glance at the Rubik's cube, and packed that as well. He left his schoolbooks on the desk; he didn't thought he would need them in a vampyre school. Most likely he won't even have History, or Biology, or any other subjects he has been studying until now.

As he went to the bathroom, to collect his toothbrush, his towel and stuff, he looked into the mirror.

It was a… funny sight, he could find other words to it. The crescent moon was nested so snuggly to the centre of his forehead like it have always been there. He seemed pale, but otherwise he looked normal to his own eyes. Odd, but even the Mark seemed to be in place. Like it has belonged there.

He sighed and left the bathroom.

He could fit all of his stuff into two suitcases. It took only about fifteen minutes to pack that all. He lifted the luggage with a little effort, walking away slowly from his room, closing the door with a little thud, which made the leaving final; his hearth clenched, as he coughed again.

He hasn't even reached the top of the stairs when he first heard their hushed voices. His parent; and they were talking about him, he could feel it in his core.

He it wasn't nice, but he crept quietly closer so he could eavesdrop their discussion.

'Helen, don't feel pity for him. He invited this with his outrageous behavior. Think about it as God's rightful punishment.'

'But Evan, he's my – our son… we just can't let the darkness embrace him… there must be a way to fight it…' He could hear that his mother was still crying.

'The only way he can be saved is the way of God. We can only pray for him.' His father sighed. 'But I doubt that God will listen. In a case like this… this aberration… and be honest, it'll be easier, even for us…' his voice was totally lack of emotion, like he didn't even care. Like was talking about some insignificant soul from the church, not his only son.

And Damien knew that he meant it, when he said, that it'd be easier – for them. He really didn't care about him anymore – or more like felt that he was a burden, a sin, that he had to bring with himself on the way to God, to Heaven.

And there was no more place in his heart for his son.

Damien's knees gave away as he slumped to the floor, sobbing quietly. So this is what his parents became.

And he realized, that it really will be easier at his new place, where he was going. The place, where he won't have to pretend, where he won't have to face his parent's hatred for him every day.

The place, where he could be himself again, where ha could get a new start.

Being a vampyre suddenly didn't even sound as bad.

Next: Erik


End file.
